


Success is Failure Waiting to Arrive

by orphan_account



Series: Duty Bound [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Control, Dom/sub Play, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If power corrupts isn't it best to have someone take the power away once in a while?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Success is Failure Waiting to Arrive

**Author's Note:**

> The second of something I haven't written the first of yet. But it's in my head.

And that’s why she’s sitting on his sofa drinking his beer and getting turned on by the memory.

His key turning in the lock, the click of the door shutting behind him and the hard clipped sound as he walked along his hallway has her snap her head towards the open door of the lounge.  _Christ, what if he’s not alone_.  The thought rushes briefly through her head but she’s already considered it before she came here.  He’d never bring a girl home.  Take her home certainly but he’s more likely to stump up for a hotel, cheap nasty or chintzy and very expensive depending on the girl and his mood but he’d never bring one home.

They’d have to break in.

She raises the bottle of beer to her lips and takes a sip.

That’s the picture that greets Bond as he walks in to his lounge at a little after midnight on what had been Wednesday.

M.  His Boss.  Sitting on his couch.  Drinking his beer.

He tosses out a seemingly unfazed hello while he’s getting a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge.  “Want another?”  He asks and looks back as M is shaking her head in answer.  He’ll see in a minute, when he sits beside her on the couch, that she’s already got two empty bottles neatly lined up on the coffee table; one with the label carefully and completely picked off whole from the bottle and the second with the label torn off in little pieces that M has left in a little pile on the table.

She lifts that third bottle to her lips again as the couch dips and she shifts a little as Bond takes his seat.

“Where’s your security detail?” 

M laughs out a huff of breath.  “You don’t think the head of MI6 is capable of giving people the run-around?”

“Well I know that she is.”  He tells her, smiling. “But I didn’t think she’d be doing it just to sit on my couch.”  He swallows back more beer from the bottle he has yet to put down and wipes his thumb across the condensation on the green glass.  “What _are_ you doing here?”

M leans forward, puts her beer on the coffee table.  She’s resting her elbows on her knees with her hands clasped. Looking back at him sitting lazily against couch, the next words she speaks makes Bond just a little bit hard.

“It’s been a very good day at sea.”  There’s a pause and she holds his gaze so steadily, with such surety Bond holds his breath and thinks the world might be about to end.  “Commander Bond.”

She says it all with the lightest of touches, like it doesn’t mean half of what it does.

“So I’d heard.”  He says with the same light touch.  “In fact I was thinking that tomorrow I might have to pay you a visit.”  He shifts his body, his mind, away from the lazy, slouched couch pose.

“Well I’m here now.”

“Uhhu.” He drinks another quick swig.  “Stand up.”  He says.  “Here.”  He tells her and points at the small space between him and the coffee table.

He has to splay his legs to let her stand between them and M thinks he’s taking an awfully long look at her.

He is.

She’s wearing those terribly sensible black court shoes, the kind that are smart, functional and good for the office but that only the most ardent fetishist would find arousing.  He lifts her feet in turn and takes the shoes from her.  He sets them on the floor.  He’s not one for shoes.  The suit she’s wearing though, that, that makes his dick swell a little more.  A simple, well cut - possibly entirely bespoke given the perfect fit and expensive material – black trouser suit.  Jesus she looks good in it.  It speaks of the subtly of power and command and as he looks up at her he’s well aware she knows how to hold herself in it to the best advantage.

He flicks open the first of three buttons on her jacket and he can already hear the change in her breathing and he’s wondering how badly she needs this.

“So, how good a day has it been Ms Mawdsley?”  He asks her as he unfastens the other buttons.

M tries to pull a breath in to compose herself and almost manages it.  “All the rumours,”  She says with a stuttering breath, “They’re all true.  We did it.”  Her breath is speeding as Bond shifts his hands to sweep over her hips.  “We did it James.”   She pulling in breaths so deep her whole body shifts with each inhalation and she murmurs out ‘oh god’ quietly.

He brushes his thumbs across the band of fabric at her waist.  “Shhh.”  He says softly, “Shhh.”

She steadies her breath to something less violent but can’t help but hitch as he begins to unzip her trousers.

He pushes the fabric down past the curve of her hips and it falls in a tumble at her feet and a tap on her calves tell her to step out of them completely, “Well,” he says as he traces his fingers across the silk of her knickers, “I think you’re going to need a very good lesson today, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He stands up so he can take the jacket from her, peeling it off her shoulders, leaving it on the floor with her trousers.  Though she’s never slight she **is** small, he’s towering nearly a foot above her, and now she’s almost but not quite naked; lightly violet velvet top, trimmed across the tastefully - but teasing -  low neckline with a deep panel of lace.  Beneath that, he knows, there will be a bra to match the high-end black silk and burnished gold lace knickers.  Something as well made as her suit, he figures, something she dons for her aging body not in spite of it.  He knows that she had no fear of her age or of life showing on your skin.  His feels the taut crust of his own scars in his mind and thanks her for that.

He can’t help himself.  He bends down just enough to let his lips meet the nape of her neck and leans in with a soft yet hungry kiss as his hands brace against her shoulders.  He finishes with a murmur against her warm, lined skin.

He takes her by the hand and leads her to the kitchen, to the wooden table he found ruined in a reclamation yard and sanded back to solid, soft, honesty.

“Go on.” He says.

He watches as M places her hands on the table.  She slips them across the wood, body necessarily following and stops when her elbows are just past the edge and her forearms, like her palms, are flat against the surface.

Tension is screaming inside her, she’s been thinking about this for hours now.  Drinking champagne with her peers after the news had come through she was already planning how she would slip her security detail.  On her way home in the company car she was thinking about how she would get to his flat and whilst the PM was wittering on the phone about a release to the press of the good news she was figuring how seamlessly she would circumvent James’s security measures to get past the front door.  On his couch, drinking his beer, waiting for him, all she’s done is think about this.  And it’s all been growing a knot of want and need in stomach.

She bites her lip to stop from barking out an undignified grunt as James smacks her hard across the arse.

He leaves a gap of time just long enough that she feels the tingle of pain and heat mark her and she shudders out a breath.

Bond lays another sharp blow across her skin and this time he doesn’t wait before he strikes her again.  Then another pause so she can feel it but soon  he’s raining softer smacks across the swell of each cheek, alternating left and right and the pace he’s keeping -  that feels like the in and out of fucking but M wouldn’t know because they’ve never crossed that bridge.

He stops the spanking.  He peels the knickers from her arse and slides them down her legs. Lifts one foot out of them and plants her right foot back further out than it was.  Then for good measure he nudges at her feet with the toe of his shoes and M obeys, spreading her legs wider and she thinks she might have heard him gently tell her ‘good girl’.

She knows what comes next. 

He does it softly first, a testing thwack against her cunt and when his hand touches the wet, pliant flesh M hear him groan just a little.

Then another nearly tender slap hits her between the legs.

Every nerve she has is screaming, it’s so much and the line between pleasure and pain is so very blurred…

She bites the inside of mouth, trying not to scream and the iron taste of her own blood touches her tongue.

He hit the mark over and over again, hitting the bundled tension at her clit and the wet slit of her pussy ‘til it’s getting too much…

He stops on the last tap.

“Did you,”  He says, sounding amused and intrigued, “did you just pee on my hand?”

_Oh god_.  She slumps forward, resting her forehead on the table.  She’s mortified.

His hand – the other one, she notes – is skimming soothing whorls and sweeps across her back.  “Well?”  He asks when she stays silent.

“I don’t normally drink a lot of beer.”  She says in what she hopes will be explanation and excuse.  She hates to think that he’s picturing her as one of those old women who worries when they sneeze or cough because she spends too much time on Pilates and doing kegels at her desk to ever be one of them.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Stand up and turn around.”

When she does M can barely bring herself to look at him.  Instead she flicks her eyes up at him before she pushes her forehead against his chest.

“Did you mean for that to happen?”

“God no.”  She says as the flush of embarrassment he can’t yet see colours her face.

“Then?”

“I thought,”  she finds the nerve to look at him, “I needed to pee before we started…the beer…I thought I would be alright.”

Bond can see she’s clearly humiliated.  “It’s okay,” he tells her, “Do you still need to go?”

“God yes.”  She says and she sounds much more like the M of the office and MI6 and the voice in his earpiece when he’s working.

“Good.”  He leans down ‘til his mouth is at her ear.  “Tell me Mawdsley, if I put my fingers here” she gasps when he pushes two fingers easily inside her, “and fucked you with them, what do you think would happen?”

“Bond.”   She breaths as he works his fingers against her.

“Commander Bond.”  He tells her.

She bites her mouth again.

“Would you come first?”  He asks as he draws his fingers out almost all the way before rushing them back in.

M curls her hand around his bicep and she buries her head in to his chest again, trying to hold in all the pathetic little noises that are trying to escape her.

“Or would you piss all over my hardwood floor before that happened?”

The sound of his voice is so smooth and she knows he’s asking the question with a smile on his lips, she can hear it.  It’s a maddening counterpoint to the pace, the vigour he’s using on her.  It’s almost brutal and his ring and middle finger are buried over and over again in her cunt, index finger and pinky bent back.  The angle he’s holding his hand at means the knuckles are thumping against her, hitting her clit, some bone and tight, tight muscle over and over and over again.

“Or would it all happen at once?”

Bond feels M grip his arm tighter.  He can see the tension she’s holding herself in, every sinew straining at breaking point and his fingers never stop working against her.

“I think,”  He says calmly, “Given the circumstances you don’t have to stay quiet.”

“Fucking Hell!”  She screams in to his chest as soon as she’s given permission.  “Fuck!  I..I..Fucking..”  then she falls away to incoherent noises and half words.

Bond’s dick is so hard, so hot with rushed blood, it’s painful and tight pressed up against the fabric of his clothes.  All he wants to feel is the spongy flesh around his fingers as it starts to flutter and pull and he desperately needs to know what it would feel like to fuck her when she’s this on edge.

That’s not what this is about.

“Such a dirty little whore, aren’t you Mawdseley?”

“Who did this for you when Pacific 4 went the right way?”

“Whose been teaching you lessons when I wasn’t here?

“Tell me Barbara, tell me who really fucks you, you filthy little slut.”

Everything in her clenches tight before it gets thrown away and she slackens.

She’s come hard and there’s a flood of water.

He holds her up by jamming her between his body and the kitchen table, his hands on the tops of her arms.

She’s swearing softly and huffing out the stuttering, tremulous breaths he loves to hear.

And the floor is wet.

So is the right leg on Bond’s trousers.

“This suits going to need dry cleaned M.”  He says, again with that mixture of amusement and intrigue.

“Fuck off James.”  She tells him sounding him so much like herself his unspent cock twitches like a randy teenager.

He pulls his arms around her and holds her for just long enough.

 


End file.
